


you lead and i'll follow

by gremlit



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Light Angst, M/M, geralt is the little spoon, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29605392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlit/pseuds/gremlit
Summary: The scar on Geralt’s back has faded into a raised white line of skin, thicker than some of the others. Perhaps there are other, new additions to Geralt’s impressive collection of scars, but he knows this one. Is drawn to it. It occurs to Jaskier that this is one Geralt has taken in his stead. This scar might have been his. How many of them has Geralt taken for him? There is a song here, he thinks, about the violence Geralt’s body holds.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 46





	you lead and i'll follow

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written fanfiction for almost a decade. please forgive

It begins like this:

Jaskier is wiping the dried mud off his boots after a particularly messy encounter with a nest of drowners. The road, which had moments ago been firm dirt, suddenly softened under Jaskier’s feet. The mud stiffened around Jaskier’s boots. And then, stuck and tugging at his boots, a drowner burrows itself right out of the ground before him, quickly followed by others. Their black scales are slick with mud. Before Jaskier has time to react, Geralt is taking them down where they stand. It happens so quickly in the darkness of the swamp; the first claw swipe meets the silver of Geralt’s sword with a _clang!_ that rings out melodiously. His sword swings and slashes through them with the grace of a crow plucking out the heart of a mouse. The last screech of the drowner fades agonisingly slowly. Geralt gives Jaskier, frozen and clutching his lute, a glance before yanking his foot out of the mud by the laces, leaving him to pull out the other on his own. He works on returning his breath to normal while Geralt poaches the drowner corpses for their brains. Jaskier’s heart is still thrumming in his chest for hours after, his hand strumming across his lute tunelessly in an attempt to expel all that useless energy. You’d think he’d be used to the appearance of monsters, what with following around a Witcher, who’s literally paid to hunt them out. By the time Geralt has a small campfire going, Jaskier has just about managed to get the sound of their screeching out of his ears.

“Jaskier.”

He glances up at the sound of his name to see Geralt perched on a log, stripped of his shirt. A large gash that begins from below his neck between his shoulder blades to the middle of his spine runs red down his back. Jaskier must have missed the drowner’s swipe that cut him open. Nor did he spot blood seeping through Geralt’s black clothes.

Jaskier stumbles to his feet in alarm at the sight of the wound; in all his time fighting the stuff of nightmares, Geralt has always seemed invulnerable. It cuts a little into Jaskier’s image of the man. Of course he’s mortal, of course he is, but behind Geralt he feels like he can grasp a little bit of his invincibility for himself.

“It looks worse than it is,” Geralt says as Jaskier inspects it and winces.

“Oh, really? I better not be hauling your corpse to the closest town after a nasty infection sets in. That would be a terrible end to the tale of the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia.”

Geralt sighs as he holds out a jar of salve, “I can’t reach.”

“The Witcher needs my assistance?” Jaskier grins. No one ever wants his help, let alone a Witcher of legend. (A legend he has helped cultivate, nonetheless.)

“Shut it.”

And for once, he does. Geralt hasn’t glanced his way once, and despite his muttering that Jaskier is a socially inept fool, known only for his ability to piss off husbands, he knows when someone is feeling vulnerable. Well. What’s the Witcher version of vulnerable? Probably “uncomfortable,” Jaskier thinks. Geralt is definitely familiar with that emotion. But Jaskier is silent as he smooths the salve over the wound as delicately as he would play a ballad.

When he’s finished, he wipes his hands off each other, pleased with his work.

“There. All done.” It might just be the speedy healing of a Witcher, but the cut already looks kinder, less angry, the irritated red skin now a gentle pink. He steps away, returning to his boots. He won’t play in any tavern without looking his best, even if the taverns don’t return the favour. Geralt grunts his thanks, and the camp is quiet for the rest of the night.

The next town is as grubby as the last, and Jaskier’s feet are aching. Despite his parched throat, he manages a few less-than-enthusiastic tunes before he presents his meagre earnings to Geralt. It’s been a few days since Geralt’s last job, and it’s only enough for a single bed. Jaskier represses a sigh. He knows Geralt will take the bed, and he will whine and complain but he can hardly argue in earnest. The man goes about risking his life fighting monstrous creatures; who could deny the man a bed for his work?

Geralt opens the door to the room, dumps his pack from his shoulder and strips his armour.

“Take the bed.” He grunts.

Jaskier blinks, “Sorry? Did I hear that right?”

“Don’t make me regret it,” Geralt says, throwing his bedroll on the floor.

Jaskier eyes him as the Witcher lies down on his back, hands nestled behind his head, eyes sliding shut.

“Right, is there some sort of…shape-shifting monster, one that steals faces?” Jaskier asks, dropping his things by the end of the bed.

Geralt opens a yellow cat’s-eye in question.

“You’re being uncharacteristically nice, you know. It’s unnerving. You haven’t even insulted my singing once tonight, when my voice was far below my usual par.”

“I noticed.”

Jaskier can’t help it: he barks out a laugh. That’s more like the Geralt he knows. He removes his doublet and boots, settling into the bed.

“So you think I’ve played better?”

“Don’t push it, bard.”

Jaskier hums, his eyes heavy with the weariness of days on the road. He’s about to slip into sleep like a fish released from the hook slips back into water, when Geralt’s low voice pierces the darkness.

“Dopplers.”

He opens his eyes, and he swears he can see the glint of the Witcher’s eyes, though there is no light.

“Monsters that can shapeshift. They’re called dopplers.”

“Right. Thanks, Geralt.” What he’s thanking him for, he’s not sure. He’s too tired.

In the morning, Geralt is gone, and so are his things. Jaskier curses. He must have let him have the bed so he might sneak out while Jaskier still slept. Travelling with the Witcher on the hard ground has made him a light sleeper, waking as the sun rises. The warm covers and his drained energy drew him into a deep sleep, though his back and legs are aching.  
Jaskier feels… he doesn’t know. Disappointed. Like an unpaid whore whose lover has crawled out the window during the night. But nothing to do about it. He picks up his lute and sets off. Their paths will cross again soon, he has no doubt. They have a habit of meeting again, whether by fate or coincidence. As he walks, he strums a new song.

“ _You slip through the gaps in my hands,_

_And still I’ll chase you across the lands_

_To catch a glance of your greatness_...What’s a good rhyme for greatness?”

  
He is in Oxenfurt the next time he runs into the Witcher. The endless, unpredictability of the wilds along the roads has him long for the surety the city provides. A tour through Oxenfurt outskirts has him shaking off bandits and singing his voice out of use in order to pay for board every night; too afeared to make camp without Geralt’s comforting presence. That or he seduces whoever looks willing to secure lodging. By the time he reaches the city, he spends a whole day drinking before falling asleep in the corner of an inn. He can hardly be faulted for enjoying the excess of women and wine that Oxenfurt provides, can he?

It’s enough to recharge his energy, and he returns to tavern singing the next day. That night, after a quick rut with the woman who had been eyeing him salaciously through his entire set, he is thrown out onto the streets rather abruptly. The “my husband returns home at dusk!” excuses are getting a little old, he thinks. The whole routine is getting a little old. Just once, he wouldn’t mind falling asleep beside someone without the need to rush into his clothes or escape the scorn of a spouse.

With a sudden lack of lodging for the night, he finds his lute is his only companion on the dark streets, which are strangely quiet. The windows are all barred and shut up, with hardly a red-faced drunk to be seen. The taverns are still bursting with music and raucous laughter, so Jaskier tries to dismiss his feeling of unease. Too much time with Geralt has left him paranoid. But he doesn’t rate his chances with another surprise encounter with drowners.

Whatever’s been following him for the last couple minutes might not be a drowner, but he’s not got any defenses, mugger or monster. Tightening his hold on his lute, preparing to use it as a weapon if needs must, Jaskier waits for the thing to get closer.

He swings round, ready to sacrifice his beloved lute to save himself. Horrendous mouth open, revealing thick rows of fangs, before him stands a beast resembling an overgrown bat. Skin red like a pomegranate, its claws are extended and ready to rip Jaskier to shreds. But before the creature can even shriek, before Jaskier can even begin to start coming to terms with his impending death, its head is lopped off its head. It falls to the floor with an underwhelming _thud_.

“Jaskier?” Behind the slowly falling body of the beast is Geralt, his sword slick with blood as dark as his eyes. The confusion on his face is evident, his brow furrowed deeply.

“Geralt! My saviour once again. I might weep with relief,” Jaskier laughs, a hand on his heart. Geralt’s eyebrow crease deepens.

“Don’t scowl like that, Geralt, you’ll give yourself wrinkles.”

The Witcher grunts, picking the beast’s corpse off the tiled road, and throwing it over his shoulder.

“What are you doing with that?” Jaskier grimaces as Geralt lifts the head of the thing up by the beard-like hair growing from what Jaskier assumes is its chin.

“Burning it.”

“Right. Of course,” Jaskier mutters, and then he trails along behind him, falling into old habits.

They’re both standing beside the remains of the creature slowly catching fire on the banks of the Oxenfurt harbour before either of them speaks again.

“My thanks again for saving me from that… beast, Geralt.”

“Ekimmara,” Geralt says, his eyes amber in the glow of the fire, having returned to their natural colour, “Lower vampire.”

Jaskier thinks for a moment on what rhymes with “Ekimmara,” before Geralt growls.

“What were you doing? Could it be you actually have a death wish, Jaskier?” The crease on his brow is back, staring at Jaskier the way he might at something out of his bestiary.

“No more than usual,” Jaskier says, an eyebrow raised in confusion, “By which I mean not at all.”

“The city has been living in fear for weeks, plagued by murders. Only you would fail to notice the threat.”

Jaskier tilts his head, “Well, that does explain it.”

Geralt breathes out his nose in exasperation, like a boar ready to charge. He returns his gaze to the fire, arms crossed over his chest as the Ekimmara body turns to ash. Jaskier watches his face aglow in the light, trying to interpret the unguarded expression that sits there. It occurs to him that Geralt is _concerned_ and he has to repress his lips from curling upwards.

“Were you worried about me, Witcher?”

Geralt scoffs, “Hardly.”

“For all the trouble I find myself in, I don’t mean to seek it out. Tonight was rather unfortunate, yes, but it was nothing more than bad luck. My...lodging fell through,” Jaskier explains, urged to defend himself.

“I’m not always around to save you from monsters, Jaskier.”

Geralt’s jaw is set tight, his expression as hard as ever. It makes Jaskier want to tug on those words like a loose tooth until the truth comes spilling out. Isn’t that what drew him to the man in the first place? Sitting in the shadows, carrying two swords on his back: that’s a man who has stories. If only Jaskier could find the right words to make Geralt tell him what those stories were. Despite what he says about their lack of friendship, Geralt doesn’t want him dead at the claws, talons, or teeth of some creature he could have slain. There’s already so much blood on his hands, Jaskier thinks. But then why leave him to fall into tribulation without his protection?

“I came to the city precisely _because_ of your absence. I thought, where’s safer in the world than Oxenfurt?”

“Nowhere’s free from danger.”

“Ah! Except, perhaps, at the side of a Witcher!”

Geralt grunts. Crouching down beside the fire, he examines the ashen remains of the Ekimmara corpse. Apparently satisfied, he dumps some sand onto the embers, extinguishing it. The head he shoves into a sack, ties it shut and swings it over his shoulder. He returns to the cobblestone road on the main road, leaving Jaskier gazing after him.

Geralt glances over his shoulder at him, “Come on, bard.”

And Jaskier falls in step beside him.

Geralt has a room at one of the larger taverns, one with a real bedframe and a pleasant orange made from lit sconces. The pillows are plump and clean, rather than the potato-sack material Jaskier’s familiar with. To the left of the bed, cross-hatched wooden panels separate the room from the bath. The sack containing the Ekimmara head is thrown by the foot of the bed. Geralt is already stripping his armour off, while Jaskier stands by the door, uncertain what to do with himself. Should he take this as some kind of unspoken permission to room with Geralt once more?

His layers of armour are already on a heap on the floor, but Geralt continues to undress. A sight Jaskier has seen dozens of times before, and yet his breath catches in his throat when he sees the lingering scar on his back, the mark a drowner has left on him. Jaskier is transfixed by the way it moves against the muscles of Geralt’s back before his view is obstructed by the wood panel.  
The bath is cold one moment and the next, steam is pouring into the bedroom. Geralt must have cast one of his Witcher spells. Restless, Jaskier gathers Geralt’s armour off the floor. Something is different between them, and Jaskier can’t quite place what it is. Maybe Geralt’s unusual display of emotion, the gap in his armour. Through the holes in the wooden door, he watches Geralt lower himself into the water, all his scars on display. How many more has he collected in the time they were parted? How many stories has Jaskier missed?

He throws Geralt’s discarded armour on the bed. Walks over to the wooden bathtub. The scar on Geralt’s back has faded into a raised white line of skin, thicker than some of the others. Perhaps there are other, new additions to Geralt’s impressive collection of scars, but he _knows_ this one. Is drawn to it. His hand is trembling as he reaches for it. Geralt says nothing as his fingers touch the taut skin of his back.

“It’s healed well,” Jaskier says.

“Witchers heal fast.”

“Oh? Nothing to do with my deft fingers?” Jaskier jokes, but his voice shakes as he says it. His fingers run down the scar, and it occurs to him that this is one Geralt has taken in his stead. This scar might have been his. How many of them has Geralt taken for him? There is a song here, he thinks, about the violence Geralt’s body holds. He withdraws his hand.

“It’s not safe. By my side,” Geralt says.

Jaskier groans, tearing at his hair in frustration, “I’m not safe on my own; not safe with you, what would you have me do, Geralt? I will meet my end one day, be it by monster or old age. Perhaps someone will bash my head in with my own lute, I don’t know!”

Geralt is silent.

“Gods, you are irritating. ‘Do you have a death wish, Jaskier?’” He says, dropping his voice into a mock version of Geralt’s growl, “‘It’s not safe, Jaskier,’ This  
is not safe. I would rather spend my life seeing the world than locking myself up in fear of it.”

“Hm,” Is Geralt’s only response, and Jaskier has no clue what it means.

He lies down upon the soft, downy bed, tired of Geralt’s grunts and grimaces.  
“ _Who can say what lies in the Witcher’s heart?_

_Do you think he might tell me, before we part?_ ” Jaskier sings softly to himself. The bed shifts under Geralt’s weight as he lies down beside him, clothed only in his trousers. Jaskier jerks up in surprise.

“I’ve seen too many people die, Jaskier,” Geralt says, his back to him. And all of a sudden Jaskier knows. Maybe it’s what draws him to Yennefer, an all powerful sorceress: bones as thick and hard as the silver of Geralt’s sword. Jaskier, he is all soft round the edges, and falls easily for a wide grin, or smallpox scars, or the hard set of a jaw, the curve of muscle-thick arms, the sweat-slickened skin always covered in dirt from the constant fighting.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says softly, settling on his side. His fingers graze the wisps of Geralt’s silver hair. He lowers his hand to the smooth skin of his back. Returns to that scar, (  
scar is how he thinks of it, claiming it as his own) not sure what he’s doing. When was the last time Geralt let himself be touched? Properly touched, with gentleness, not the brief fuck he had with Yennefer, or that of nameless whores in brothels?

“Oh, I remember,” Jaskier hums, the salve cold in his memory.

“Remember what?”

“Touching you,” Jaskier says, pressing his hand flush against Geralt’s back, the callouses slotting in among the raised skin of his scars, “Is this alright?”

“Hm,” Geralt says, as always, and Jaskier takes that as permission to continue. His heart soars in his chest. Geralt has hardly let him pat him on the shoulder without glaring at him. In the dim, candle-lit room of the tavern, he can’t so much _see_ the scars as he can feel them; the change in texture and the ridges they create. Under the drowner scar, he traces three short parallel lines, far apart.

“Cockatrice.”

“Ouch,” Jaskier says, lowering his fingers to another, “And this?”

“Bandits.”

Jaskier lifts his eyebrows, “Can you recall every one?”

“No. But most.”

Jaskier takes a breath. His hand is at Geralt’s lower back. Slowly, he moves it to Geralt’s waist, and places his hand around Geralt’s stomach. Encouraged by the lack of growling or threats, he shuffles closer, slotting his knees in behind Geralt’s, his lips inches away from the Witcher’s neck. His breath shudders out as he closes his eyes. The night has been long, and he is weary. Touching chest to Geralt’s back, he can just detect the slow beat of the Witcher’s heart, and it beckons him to sleep.

Jaskier wakes, and Geralt is still there. He’s sitting up, and his arm is around Jaskier. As he blinks at him in half shock and half relief, Geralt turns to look at him.

“Geralt. You’re still here,” Jaskier shifts. He is warm and comfortable, like a cat who has been lying in the sun, and reluctant to get up.

“Yes.”

As Geralt dresses in his layers of armour, Jaskier watches him, as if he’ll disappear the moment he takes his eyes off him.

“What?” Geralt grunts, his own cat eyes meeting his. Jaskier can only smile a stupid grin, pulling the strap of his lute around him.

“Nothing, Witcher,” He says, and reaches his arms up over his head in a stretch, “Gods, I haven’t slept so well since the Countess of Stael let me sleep in her bed decked with bear fur quilts. Can’t get much more luxurious than bear fur, wouldn’t you say?”

Geralt stomps toward him and grabs a fist full of Jaskier’s doublet, pulling him forward and slotting their mouths together. Jaskier makes a noise of surprise, and then relaxes, opening his mouth against Geralt’s. His tongue is hot as it runs along his bottom lip.

Jaskier moans, and Geralt releases him, letting him fall back on his heels.

“Don’t mention her again,” He growls, returning to his pack.

“We-ell,” Jaskier smiles, “If it’ll make you kiss me like _that_ again, perhaps I should mention her more often.”

Geralt throws his pack over his shoulder, “Come on, bard.”

And Jaskier would wander into a nest of dragons with him, and Geralt wouldn’t even need to ask.


End file.
